


listen before I go

by consulalexander



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst with a Happy Ending, Clary/Alec brotp, Clary/Magnus brotp, Depression, Fake/Pretend Relationship, I mean get ready for some ANGST, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, When I say angst, accidental Simon Lewis erasure, art bonding, basically Clary is an angel, but actually very little fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-23
Updated: 2019-07-23
Packaged: 2020-07-12 00:18:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,891
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19936912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consulalexander/pseuds/consulalexander
Summary: In the wake of losing his magic-- again-- something has to give. And that something ends up being Magnus' heart.AU after 3x17: what if Magnus was the one to break up with Alec instead of the other way around?Here there be angst.





	listen before I go

**Author's Note:**

> For those of you who follow me on Tumblr, I said I'd give you angst monster, so here is Angst Monster.
> 
> This fic is the product of listening to Lovely by Billie Eilish and I Can't Breathe by Bea Miller on repeat after watching 3x17 and being extremely emo about Magnus. If you want to have the same painful experience I had while writing, put those songs on a loop while you read.
> 
> Don't expect a consistent update schedule for this-- it's going to be about 4-5 parts, but this thing is a BEAST and VV is my priority (and yes, that update is coming I swear) so I'll post each part when I think it's done.
> 
> For administrative purposes and because I refuse to succumb to the garbage of the Shadowhunters timeline, this goes AU after Alec's botched proposal in 3x17. Clary hasn't gone dark, Jonathan is still in his cell, Magnus is without his powers, and this story begins maybe two-three weeks after the attempted proposal. Oh, and Magnus got his loft back somehow because I'm too lazy to think of anything better and for the purposes of this fic Magnus needed his own place (suspension of disbelief folks).
> 
> (Also I somehow completely forgot about Simon in this fic I'msosorrypleasedon'thurtmeIloveSimonIdothere'sjustalotgoingonokay)
> 
> I'm sorry for what my brain comes up with.

_somebody get me a hammer/wanna break all the clocks and the mirrors/and go back to a time that was different_

I.

Waking up becomes the worst part of his day.

Sleep is bliss—there is no reality in dreams. He’s filled to the brim with power, the familiar hum of magic coursing through his body, as steady as a heartbeat. It comes out of him in waves, blue fire wrapping delicately around the loft and out to the balcony and caressing his skin like a lover’s lips. He’s drunk and high and orgasming all at once and he’s never felt this _alive_.

For a moment when he wakes up, golden light casting across the bed from the bay window and dancing tenderly on his skin, nothing is different. Nothing is missing.

But then, the knowledge of his new reality comes crashing down on him like a tsunami, and Magnus is drowning in grief, as if that part of him—the only part he really knows—died.

Every day is a new kind of hell—he might as well have stayed in Edom.

Magnus breaks out of his traitorous thoughts when he feels something stirring next to him: Alec, grunting softly as he rolls over. His long lashes flutter, opening to reveal big pale eyes clouded over with sleep.

He yawns until his jaw cracks and mutters, “Hey.”

Magnus gives him a small smile, barely a quirk of his lips and not quite meeting his eyes.

“Good morning.”

Alec shuffles closer into Magnus’ side, clearly not ready to get out of the comfortable cocoon of blankets he’s sequestered himself in.

Normally, Magnus adores Alec in the morning; he’s the softest Magnus ever sees him, wanting nothing but warmth and cuddles. He reminds Magnus fondly of a cat lying in a sun patch on the floor, sprawling his limbs out over the bed or on top of Magnus. He normally could spend hours tracing the runes on his pale skin, slowly waking Alec up with feather light kisses and barely there fingertips.

That was before, though. That was Magnus Bane, High Warlock of Brooklyn.

He has no idea who Magnus Bane the mundane is, and Alec’s sleepy embrace only reminds him, with a pang, of what he no longer has.

Magnus extracts himself from the bed with some difficulty, Alec’s arms tightening around him like a boa constrictor. Alec groans in protest, lifting his head to drowsily glare at Magnus.

“Where are you going?” he pouts.

“Coffee,” Magnus says, because he knows it’s an answer Alec will wholeheartedly accept. There’s no limit to Alec’s caffeine addiction.

“Oh, okay,” Alec murmurs, sinking back down into the bed.

A part of Magnus, growing louder by the second, demands that he crawl back into bed and wrap himself up in his all too enticing boyfriend, thinking of nothing but _them_ , existing in this space like nothing is wrong and there’s no gnawing pit in his stomach.

He can’t, though. He’s already put Alec through so much—Magnus doesn’t understand why he stays, why he lets Magnus do things like ruin romantic dinners or pick fights and cry, why he’s so _patient_ and _good_. Far better than Magnus can ever be, that’s for sure. He doesn’t deserve it, and Alec especially doesn’t deserve what Magnus is giving him in return.

Which is, well, nothing. Nothing at all.

“I’ll be right back,” Magnus says, feeling suddenly overwhelmed and hoping Alec is still too tired to detect the note of panic in his voice.

He leaves the stifling bedroom and pads down the hall, his fingers automatically coming together in a phantom snap for coffee to begin brewing. The air rushes out of him when he remembers. Everything’s manual now.

As Magnus preps the coffee machine he recalls, his face wrinkled in slight disgust, soon after he’d lost his magic for good. He’d almost had a breakdown over the damn machine when he’d gone to make some for himself and Alec one morning and realized he had no idea how to actually make coffee. Alec had wandered into the kitchen, wondering what was taking Magnus so long, and found him sitting on the floor, head hanging low with the machine in pieces around him.

Of course—because Alec really must be one of those white knights in fairy tales—he’d hauled Magnus to his feet and helped him pick out a new coffee maker, simple gold without any bells or whistles. When they got back, Alec sat Magnus down at the kitchen island and, with a teacher’s patience and a protective desire that was all Alec, walked him through how to make a perfect pot of coffee by hand.

Magnus pours the coffee into two mugs now, his fingers tingling when colliding with the warm ceramic. When he closes his eyes, he can almost pretend it’s the feeling of magic sparking at his fingertips.

Almost.

He goes back into the bedroom and finds Alec out of bed, pulling on a shirt. His phone lies on the edge of the bed, and his hair clings to his forehead, damp from the shower. Magnus wonders just how long he was in the kitchen for.

Alec doesn’t comment on it. He takes the mug Magnus offers him gratefully and sips, grinning at him.

“Perfect,” he says, eyes incredibly soft as he gazes at Magnus.

Magnus fidgets, a feeling of guilt that has been ever-present lately when he looks at Alec washing over him.

“I have to go,” Alec says, apologetic, after a few moments of silence. “I’m sorry, Jace called, it’s important, we're still trying to get that rune off Clary and..." 

Magnus nods his head too fast, Alec trailing off.

“Of course,” he says, more than a little relieved that Alec is leaving. He loves Alec, loves his grounding presence, but if he has to endure another day of pitying glances, he might scream.

“You gonna be okay?” Alec asks, eyes probing as he slips on his leather jacket.

“Who, _moi_?” Magnus rolls his eyes, playing up nonchalance for Alec’s benefit. “I’ll be just fine. I’ve got some house stuff I’ve been meaning to take care of anyway. Dusting, scrubbing, Marie Kondo-ing. You know.”

Alec pauses in lacing up his boots, looking at Magnus in suspicion. Clearly, Magnus isn’t doing as good a job of hiding his emotions as he thinks he is.

Alec smashed through all of Magnus’ walls without even _trying_ , by simply existing, and Magnus has to fight to rebuild in the wake of his new identity. He hates it, and he’s more than positive Alec isn’t pleased with it either, if the disastrous dinner on the balcony a few weeks ago now is anything to go by. But he has to protect himself and without his magic, he doesn’t have very many ways to do that now. He’s safe behind the walls; nothing can hurt him there.

“You sure? I can try and leave work early, make Jace or Izzy take some paperwork for me—”

Magnus cuts him off, painting a wide smile on his face with as much false joy as he can muster.

“No!” he says, too earnest. “I’m fine, darling, honestly. You’ve got Shadowhunters to order around, you don’t need to worry about me.”

Alec slides his phone into his pocket and steps forward, closing the distance between them and cupping Magnus’ cheek with his palm. His eyes run over Magnus’ features, looking for… _something_.

“I always worry about you,” he murmurs.

Magnus doesn’t know what to say. If Magnus is fighting to rebuild his walls, Alec’s are crumbling down like skyscrapers in an earthquake. He’d worked so hard to get Alec to expose himself, and now that they’re here, Alec bearing everything to him in that urgently sweet way of his, all Magnus wants to do is hide.

He settles for a small smile, leaning into Alec’s hand and kissing his palm.

Alec’s phone buzzes violently in his pocket, and he winces.

“Gotta go,” he says, kissing Magnus’ forehead and disappearing out of the bedroom.

Magnus hears Alec’s tender call of ‘see you tonight, love you!’ as he leaves, the door falling shut behind him.

The loft is quiet, and Magnus stares off into the distance, reluctantly embracing the hollowness of his chest as another empty, useless day stretches out before him like the gray ocean fading into the horizon.

*

He ends up at Hunter’s Moon, because alcohol is always there for him to turn to when he feels like he has nothing else.

He’s been sitting there for a couple hours now, Maia watching him cautiously from behind the bar as Magnus downs martini after martini. It’s maybe six p.m.—Magnus stopped checking the time around three when he realized that, yes, hours of doing nothing really _did_ last that long—and Magnus is probably a bit too drunk for so early in the evening, but his last fuck flew out the window ages ago.

He drains the last of his martini and bats his eyes at Maia, feeling clumsy. Maia rolls her eyes, swiping the sticky martini glass from him.

“I ordered you some fries,” Maia says when she returns with another dirty martini, three olives speared by a plastic sword floating on top. “You’re eating them, don’t argue with me.”

Magnus huffs, taking a sip and sticking his tongue out at her childishly.

“You’re here to ply me with booze, not babysit me,” Magnus grouses.

“Yeah, well, I’m also here to make sure you don’t pass out on my bar in your own vomit, so you’re eating the damn fries, Magnus.”

He glares at her over the edge of his glass but says nothing, mostly because he hasn’t eaten anything all day and his alcohol tolerance is no longer what he’s used to.

The fries arrive and he eats them slowly, washing them down with vodka and olives, everything settling into a heavy lump in his stomach. It’s all horrendously monotonous, and as he drinks, Magnus despairs in a mundane life. He’s rootless, without direction, without anything to guide him. He’s never felt so lost in his life, and that life has been one endless string of trying to find himself. But as a warlock.

He remembers the gray hairs sprouting on his head. His life isn’t endless anymore. Magnus the mundane has nothing to offer the world, and if his life is now relegated to this—sitting in the same bar every day talking to people from a world he no longer belongs too, drinking martinis from grimy glasses and seeing nothing but dull and black before him—maybe he'd rather not have a life at all.

It’s morbid and horrifying and selfish, but this isn’t the first time the thought has crossed his mind, especially when swimming knee deep in martinis.

He’s finished the fries and drained a couple more martinis. It must be eight or nine by now—Magnus would check his phone but it died before he left for the bar and he hasn’t found the willpower to do something about it.

Magnus is drunk—impressively so. He sways back and forth on his barstool, everything spinning around him, and he laughs to himself like he’s on a carnival ride. Numbness settles in, and he could cry with relief. He’s floating, and if he pretends hard enough, the alcohol flowing through his veins could be magic.

The bell on the door of the bar chimes, and Magnus looks up blearily as loud voices barrage his senses and interrupt his false sense of peace.

 _Fuck_.

It’s Daniel; a hulking werewolf with flaming red hair and an equally flaming temper. Magnus hasn’t seen him since one of his parties a couple years ago. A party where, unfortunately, Magnus had gotten admittedly a bit _too_ frisky with Daniel’s girlfriend at the time.

(In his defense, she’d started it.)

Magnus catches Daniel's eye, and he groans.

“Daniel,” Magnus slurs, rolling his eyes. “A pleasure it is not.”

Four or five equally hulking men flank Daniel, who’s in a hideous plaid shirt that Magnus would happily set fire to if given the opportunity. Daniel crosses his arms over his broad chest in an attempt to look menacing and raises his eyebrows at Magnus.

“Heard you’re living the mundie life these days, Bane,” Daniel says, lips curling back in a canine snarl.

Magnus raises his glass in a mock salute, liquid sloshing over the side.

“Living the dream,” he spits, bitterness choking him.

Daniel chuckles, and Magnus realizes through his drunken cloud just how close Daniel is standing to him, his pack like statues behind him. Heat vibrates off Daniel’s body; Magnus practically smells the fight on him, and can’t decide if this is the best or worst time for this to happen.

Evidently, Maia smells it too,

“Hey,” she says sternly, eyeing Daniel and his pack. “You guys getting drinks or what?”

Daniel ignores her, grinning crookedly in Magnus’ direction. He cracks his knuckles, and Magnus laughs at the utter absurdity of it all.

“I’ve been waiting for this opportunity,” Daniel whispers, so close Magnus feels the cool wind of his breath.

“That so? Sorry you’re wasting it,” Magnus says with a shrug, eyes narrowed dangerously.

“Magnus, don’t,” Maia warns.

He doesn’t heed her. He’s past common sense, past sobriety and past the point of no return. He wants to scream and cry and break something, and Daniel’s face is right in his, ugly nose pressed too close and Magnus stops thinking, only feeling as he taunts Daniel with memories of the night in question that Magnus has almost forgotten. He hasn’t seen Daniel’s girlfriend since that night—if she even still is his girlfriend, Daniel isn’t exactly a stellar guy—but that doesn’t seem to be a concern of Daniel’s, and Magnus takes advantage.

Ignoring everything—Maia yelling at him, the pack egging Daniel on, the sharp twist in his gut—Magnus pokes and prods until the first punch finally flies, colliding with the side of Magnus’ sharp jaw, and suddenly, he’s alive again.

*

Alec is drowning in paperwork, this close to saying fuck it and giving up for the day. He groans, massaging his temples with his knuckles.

He’s eager to get back to the loft and to Magnus; these days, being away from Magnus for too long makes Alec more nervous than he’d like to admit. He knows Magnus can take care of himself—he’s seen it first hand, memories from training leaving a smile on his face and tingles rushing down his spine. But his warlock is without the magic he’s relied on for so long, and Alec had been beyond sincere when they’d spoken that morning. He’s always worrying about him, just like he does with Izzy, with Jace, even with Clary now. His family.

Family.

The Lightwood ring is a heavy weight Alec carries, even though that weight is deep in the bottom of his drawer at the loft, under mountains of ripped sweatshirts Magnus would never dare to touch, as if it wants to be forgotten about.

He can’t forget, though, just like he can’t forget the look on Magnus’ face on the balcony, and the sounds he’d made while clinging to Alec like he was falling off a cliff and Alec was the only thing keeping him up. The sounds of someone splitting apart at the seams.

Alec thinks of that night every day; every time he looks at Magnus trying to hide his pain behind false smiles or when his fingers graze against the intricate metal box the ring sits in as he hunts for a shirt. He still imagines that ring on Magnus’ finger, still desperately wants it with all his heart, but it’s tainted now with Magnus’ sadness and Alec can’t bear it.

Alec is just about to call it a night when his phone rings, Maia’s name appearing on the screen.

He frowns, answering. “Hello?”

There’s commotion in the background, followed by Maia’s low voice.

“You need to get to the bar, _now._ ”

Alec hears a yell in the background; his frown deepens, already standing and shrugging on his coat.

“What’s going on over there?” Alec asks, concern peppering his voice.

Maia lets out a deep-suffering sigh. The sound cuts out momentarily, like Maia’s moving the phone around, and then Alec hears it clearly: cheering.

A second later, he hears something dull, like the thud of a fist colliding with a punching bag, and a loud grunt.

Then, a voice Alec knows better than any other sound: “Is that really all you got? Color me unimpressed.”

Alec swears loudly.

“I’ll be there in ten,” he tells Maia, hanging up the phone and activating his speed rune with his stele. After shooting a frantic text off to Jace, he sprints out the door, trying not to choke on his anxious heartbeat.

The bar is in chaos when he arrives, slightly out of breath. Chairs are overturned, shards of glass littering the floor, and Downworlders alike are glued to the scene before them. Maia stands behind the bar, arms crossed and fuming. Alec half expects steam to start billowing out of her ears.

Maia turns her head, seeing him enter.

“Do your job and get these morons out of here!” she shouts immediately.

Alec turns, heart sinking, and murmurs to himself, brokenly, “oh _Magnus_.”

Magnus is on the ground, braced against two chairs like he fell on them and hasn’t figured out how to get back up yet. Blood pours from his nose, staining the blue silk of his billowing shirt, and a brilliant bruise is blooming on his jawline.

The werewolf leaning over him doesn’t look much better, Alec notes with an obscure amount of pride. Scratches from Magnus’ nails rake down his cheek—Alec knows from _intimate_ experience how savage they can be—and his left eye is swollen shut. There’s blood on his knuckles and his arm curls back in preparation for another hit.

Alec’s voice rings out like a gong, loud and authoritative, every decibel screaming ‘Head of the Institute’.

“ENOUGH.”

The werewolf freezes, turning in surprise at Alec’s voice. Magnus takes the opportunity to rise unsteadily to his feet.

“What the hell is going on here?” Alec asks. Maia snorts from her spot behind the bar.

“This idiot,” she says, jerking her thumb at the werewolf, “came in heated and looking for something to punch.”

She nods her head in Magnus’ direction, then looks back at Alec with an angry grimace. “ _Your_ idiot has been getting hammered since three in the afternoon and thought it would be a really swell idea to pick a fight with half a pack of werewolves.”

Magnus laughs, the sound messy and hoarse.

“Please, if anything he started it,” Magnus says with a dramatic eye roll. His hand comes up to wipe his nose, frowning when it comes away bloody.

“ _You_ started it when you fucked my girlfriend three years ago!” the werewolf snarls, lunging.

“Someone had to please her, you clearly weren’t succeeding,” Magnus shoots back viciously, getting too close to the werewolf’s waiting fist.

Alec’s had _enough_.

He steps in between the two, hands outstretched, one palm flat against the werewolf’s chest and the other fisted in Magnus’ shirt.

“All of you,” Alec snaps, glaring at the pack of wolves, “get out of here _now_ before I hand everyone over to the Clave.”

The werewolf growls at him, but backs off, moving like molasses into the ranks of his pack.

Magnus, meanwhile, makes no effort to retreat; he moves forward as if to strike and Alec grabs his shoulders, shoving him back _hard_ and glaring at him with absolute fury.

“Do _not_ make me arrest you,” he mutters so only Magnus can hear, his voice low and shaking with anger and pleading.

Something in his voice makes Magnus deflate, and he sags against Alec like a spent balloon. The werewolves file out of the bar, sending filthy looks Alec’s way that roll off his back like water. He’s used to it by now; no one likes authority, especially when it comes to Shadowhunters intervening, and Alec is the walking, talking epitome of that.

Alec hauls Magnus up against him, body vibrating with anger but refusing to give in to it until he gets Magnus home and cleaned up. He glances at Maia.

“Thanks for calling me,” he says. “Sorry about the bar, I’ll get someone in to help you clean up.”

Maia waves off his comment like she’s batting away a fly.

“Whatever,” she says, throwing an irritated look Magnus’ way. “Just get him out of here before he passes out.”

Magnus is indeed listing, a wet noodle against Alec’s side. Alec hoists him up more with a grunt—drunk Magnus is total dead weight, regardless of whether he has a warlock’s tolerance or not.

Alec nods, using one hand to send a quick text to Underhill asking him to gather a few trainees to come help Maia clean up, and drags both himself and Magnus outside.

The silence is palpable between them on the cab ride home, Alec’s face set like stone. Magnus slumps against the seat, fist held under his nose to staunch the bleeding and refusing to look at Alec.

Alec emanates a quiet fury as they step into the loft. He says nothing as he drags Magnus into the bathroom, pulling out the oversized first aid kit he’d compiled after Magnus lost his powers the first time and could no longer heal himself like he once could. Wordlessly, he wipes up Magnus’ face, assessing his nose to make sure it isn’t broken with a practiced, steady solider hand. Magnus lets him, closing his eyes and giving himself over to Alec’s deft ministrations, despite the waves of anger cascading off Alec’s skin.

When Alec is finished, they go into the bedroom. Alec helps Magnus out of his bloodied, soiled clothes and into a pair of sweatpants and a blank tank top, the armpits exaggerated so Magnus’ sides are exposed.

Alec doesn’t say a word the entire time. He doesn’t know if he _can_ speak, he’s so angry. He’s never been this angry at Magnus before, doesn’t even completely understand where the anger is coming from, but this and the night of his botched proposal are too similar and too close together and Alec is _sick_ of this, that Magnus is still trying to find ways to hide his pain from him, even after everything that’s happened.

And if it were anyone else, getting in that fight tonight, Alec would have had to arrest them, and that shakes Alec to the core more than anything.

Magnus whirls on him, apparently feeling better; good enough to be annoyed with Alec’s silence, at least.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Magnus demands petulantly.

The level of fury he’s feeling scares him; Alec fights to keep from raising his voice.

“Do you have any idea how stupid this was?” Alec whispers harshly.

Something like offense flashes in Magnus’ eyes; he takes a step back like Alec has swung at him.

Alec isn’t done, however. Far from it.

“I’m sorry for bringing this up yet again,” Alec says, slowly, breathing deep through his nose, “but apparently you don’t get it. You are the equivalent of a mundane now, Magnus, regardless if you trained with the whole goddamn Chinese army! You can’t just try and fight _five_ adult werewolves and expect it to end well for you!”

He hears his voice getting louder, his body vibrating with pent up fury and Alec knows he should stop, cool off, take a breath, but he’s reached his breaking point and the dams explode before he can stop them.

Push someone like Alec enough, and suddenly the eye of the hurricane becomes a natural disaster.

Magnus sits down on the bed, sensing a shift in the air.

“You could’ve been seriously hurt!” Alec continues, close to yelling now. “Or worse! Not to mention the position you _put_ me in, Magnus. Did you even think about that? That of course I would be the one Maia called for help, and what if I’d been with other members of the Clave? What if there had been other Shadowhunters at the bar? I would’ve been _forced_ to arrest you.”

Alec laughs bitterly, pale eyes flashing like a thunderstorm. “Arresting my own fucking boyfriend. How messed up is that?”

He says it more to himself, but he knows Magnus hears every word.

Alec meets Magnus’ eyes, golden pools of shame and sorrow. He’s never seen that look on Magnus before, never seen him actually ashamed of anything in his life, and Alec feels a pang at putting that expression on his face, but it’s poisoned with booze and stupid, reckless decisions. Alec is claustrophobic, looking at him.

“I’m sorry, Alexander,” Magnus murmurs. “I… you’re right, I didn’t think of the consequences.”

“No, you didn’t,” Alec spits. “You never do. You barrel ahead, doing and saying whatever you want. I am _sorry_ , Magnus, that you are suffering without your magic. I am so incredibly sorry. But I’ve tried everything I can think of to help you, and this is what I get for trying? You don’t think about how your actions affect anyone else! What were you even hoping to gain from this?”

Magnus’ shoulders slump in defeat.

“I don’t know.”

He _does_ know, though, and the last inch of the convoluted Pandora’s box Alec keeps his emotions in opens.

“Stop it,” Alec says, startling Magnus. He looks up at Alec in confusion.

“You _do_ know,” Alec continues, hands balled into fists. “You keep doing this. I’ve told you a million times you don’t need to keep hiding how you’re feeling from me, but you _keep doing it!_ How am I supposed to help you when you don’t tell me what you need!”

Alec’s eyes are wide, begging. He’ll fall to his knees if he has to, if it would get Magnus to tell him _something_ , some way that Alec can help ease the pain in his heart.

Magnus says nothing, though, very possibly in a state of drunken shock but Alec doesn’t care. He puts his jacket back on from where he’d thrown it haphazardly on the bed earlier and checks his phone. There’s a couple new messages from Jace and one from Underhill, but he doesn’t open them. He puts his phone back in his pocket and looks at Magnus, who’s making no move to speak.

Alec can’t be in this room anymore. He can’t be here at all.

“Fine,” Alec says, brusque. “Don’t say anything. You’re too drunk for me to take anything you say seriously anyway.”

He pockets his keys and grabs a few articles of clothing from the dresser—most of his belongings have migrated here at this point.

“I’m going to sleep at the Institute,” Alec says, watching him gather his things from his spot on the bed, mute. “Call me when you’re sober.”

He marches out of the bedroom and to the front door, half hoping Magnus will follow him but relieved when he doesn’t.

That way he won’t see the frustrated tears falling down Alec’s cheeks, like a sprinkling of early morning dew.

*

In retrospect, dealing with a problem caused by alcohol with _more_ alcohol isn’t Magnus’ finest idea, but he’s too depressed to really care, so he unearths his white and blue fifteenth-century Japanese shot glasses (well, tea cups, really, but Magnus prefers it when they hold liquor) from the mess of his cupboards. He pulls a dusty bottle off the shelf and pours the amber liquid into one of the cups, analyzing the contents like something is going to jump out at him.

Magnus tips his head back, the sweet ambrosia falling past his flush lips and spilling into his waiting mouth.

Liquor is its own kind of magic.

Magnus grabs the bottle and his cup, collapsing onto the couch with the bottle cradled to his chest. He leans his head back with a soft thunk on the arm of the couch and stares at his ceiling. Gold filigrees pepper the cream dome above him; part of the reason he’d chosen the loft is because of that ceiling, reminding him of the Sistine Chapel or the Hagia Sofia. It’s grand and bold, just like him.

Well, like he used to be. Now he’s… pathetically ordinary. Rootless. Directionless. What is his purpose now? If he can’t do magic, why is he here?

Perhaps he’s simply drunk and far too existential, but Alec’s voice, wavering with so much pent up anger (and how had he not seen this coming, why didn’t he _know_ that this anger and resentment existed in Alec), keeps repeating in his mind like a song stuck in his head.

_How am I supposed to help you when you don’t tell me what you need!_

The problem is—the reason he got in the fight with Daniel in the first place, the reason getting up each morning to face another day of empty promise and monotony is too much to bear—what Magnus _needs_ is purpose.

More than that, his purpose is to be a warlock. And Alec can’t give him that, no matter how hard he tries. No one can.

Magnus can’t figure out how to get over that. He doesn’t know if he _can._

Or if he even wants to.

His tipsy reverie is interrupted by a knock at the door.

Magnus freezes, glancing up from pouring another shot, and for a second his heart jumps, thinking Alec’s changed his mind and came back.

He wouldn’t knock, though.

“Magnus?” a voice calls through the heavy wood.

Magnus’ eyes widen in surprise, and he stands up cautiously, tripping on the balls of his feet to the door and opening it to meet his unexpected guest.

Jace gives him a grin that would be devastating to anyone else and holds up a paper bag with a very familiar bottle inside.

“Can I come in?” he asks.

“Bring that tequila and you’re always welcome,” Magnus says, stepping aside to allow Jace to pass.

He follows Jace into the living room, swiping the other shot glass from the kitchen counter when they pass and eyeing Jace suspiciously as he sits down.

Jace grabs the offered cup and uncork the tequila, pouring each of them a generous shot.

“Why are you here,” Magnus says flatly as Jace passes him a shot. Magnus has had a very long night already and he isn’t going to beat around the bush. He doesn’t have the time for Jace’s particular brand of bullshit.

Jace tosses back his shot, smacking his lips.

“Alec came back to the Institute pretty pissed and locked himself in his bedroom—a bedroom, I might add, he hasn’t slept at in like three months,” Jace explains. “I figured if he wasn’t gonna talk to me about whatever happened, I’d go to the source. I don’t think I’m wrong in assuming that’s you?”

Magnus takes his shot as confirmation, the sting of the tequila pricking at his throat.

“Alec seemed damn angry,” Jace remarks, resting his boot casually on the table and ignoring Magnus’ glare like he wants to set the boot on fire.

(He could’ve, once.)

“Yes, well, we got into… a fight,” Magnus mutters, staring at the delicate paint designs swirling on the ceramic of his cup. “Okay, well, actually _I_ got into a fight. Literally.”

“I kind of assumed,” Jace says, pouring himself another shot and jerking his chin toward Magnus’ bruised face.

Jace will find out eventually whether Magnus chooses to say anything or not, so Magnus figures he doesn’t have much to lose. He takes one more shot and recaps the night for Jace, like reciting facts from a history book or the periodic table. His voice is hollow, without its usual lilt and flair, and his fingers fidget with the empty liquor vessel in his grip, nervously drumming on the delicate china.

There’s a long pause after Magnus finishes. Jace leans back in his seat on the couch, tapping his slender fingers on his knee to an imaginary rhythm.

Finally, he says, “well. No wonder it smelled like a bar in here when I walked in.”

Magnus throws a pillow at him. Jace catches it deftly in one hand, to Magnus’ intense irritation.

“Is it in your DNA to be an unhelpful prick all of the time?” Magnus wonders aloud.

Jace rolls his eyes and sits up, depositing the pillow on the floor and pointing a finger at Magnus.

“Think what you want about me, but I’m still Alec’s parabatai. So maybe you might want to listen to what I have to say?”

Magnus purses his lips, crossing his legs in his chair and folding his hands in his lap. He looks at Jace expectantly—he’s loathe to admit it, but Jace has a very good point.

Jace clears his throat, nodding in satisfaction.

“Look,” Jace says. “The thing is, Magnus, you think of being human as being weak and useless. But you were still part human when you had your magic. You’ve always been human. That’s where your heart comes from, where all these feelings of anger and pain you have come from.”

Jace looks into Magnus’ eyes, _really_ looks, like he’s pulling back the curtain on Magnus’ soul, and Magnus is struck by one of those moments he’s only had a handful of times with Jace, rare as an oyster pearl on a beach, where Magnus understands why everyone is constantly willing to risk everything for him. He doesn’t see it often—Jace is ridiculously annoying on a good day—but when he does, it’s like a volcanic explosion in Magnus’ mind, a moment of eureka.

_This is why they all love him._

“Shadowhunters forget we’re part mundane, too,” Jace continues, tracing the lip of his cup with his thumb. “But being mundane isn’t weakness, Magnus, despite what our people tell us. Look at Maryse, look at Clary, who thought she was mundane for eighteen years. These people we love, who we look up to, have been, at one point or another, _incredibly_ mundane.”

Jace leans forward, glowing gold in the low light of the living room.

“There’s a different kind of magic in being a mundane, Magnus, one that isn’t opening portals and creating fire out of thin air. Mundanes _create_ , they _invent_. They have power in their own right, and that’s what you have to do now. Channel your powers in other ways.”

Magnus is surprised by the rush of emotion that fills him, how small his voice is when he speaks.

“How… how do you go on?” he asks, because if there’s anyone in the world who might come close to understanding how he’s feeling it’s, shockingly, Jace. “When the person you thought you were no longer exists? How do you move on from that?”

Jace is silent, ponderous as he spins the bottle of tequila with his finger.

“You adapt,” he says finally, looking up to meet Magnus’ gaze, his duo chrome eyes clouded over as he reminisces on something Magnus isn’t privy to, and he’s not sure he wants to know anyway. "You adapt to survive."

Jace wrings his hands together.

“But now you get to make a new life for yourself, Magnus,” Jace says. “You don’t have a preordained path in front of you, anymore, telling you who you think you need to be. You can be whoever you want, now. You just have to figure out who that person is going to be.”

Jace stands up, shoving his hands into the pockets of his leather jacket and smirks at Magnus crookedly.

“But maybe go see my brother first,” he says with one eyebrow raised. “Tell him yourself who you want to be.”

He pats the tequila bottle.

“Keep that too,” he says, winking, and then he’s out the door, leaving Magnus motionless on a piece of furniture for the second time that night.

Damn these Lightwoods.

He thinks he knows what he needs to say to Alec now, even if just the thought of it sends Magnus into a full blown panic. He knows what he needs _from_ him, what Alec pleaded with him to tell him but he didn’t have the answer.

The only thing that remains is if Magnus has the strength.

_There is power in being a mundane._

Hopefully, Magnus finds it.

*

It’s well past midnight when Magnus finally shows up at the Institute, but he knows Alec well enough to know that his sleep schedule is fucked when he’s keyed up. As Magnus is beyond sure he is.

Magnus pauses outside Alec’s bedroom door, hand trembling as he poises it to knock. He takes a deep breath, steadying his rapid, nervous heartbeat, and digs his nails into his palm as he raps lightly on the door.

It opens slow, and Magnus is met with Alec’s handsome face, his jaw set and twitching as he looks at Magnus.

“Can… can I come in?” he asks, timid.

Alec assesses him briefly; his expression is unreadable as he moves to allow Magnus entrance.

The faint smell of sandalwood permeates the air; a candle burns in the corner and Magnus smiles wistfully at the sight. His fingers graze the ornate carvings of Alec’s bed post in reverence, like he’s trapped in a memory.

He glances behind him; Alec stands against the door, arms crossed over his chest. He’s wearing a loose gray t-shirt and sweatpants, looking so utterly soft and pliant that Magnus wants to both run away and throw himself into Alec’s arms.

The stony expression on Alec’s face, however, suggests that neither is an option.

“I’m sorry,” Magnus starts, because an apology seems like the best place to begin. “I… you’re right, Alexander. I haven’t told you everything about how I’m feeling. I’ve been, well, scared.”

He chances a look at Alec’s face—he’s still frowning, but his eyes are soft, watching him intently.

Magnus swallows.

_I can’t do this._

_I need to._

“The truth is,” Magnus says, stepping a little closer, “I am… I am so _lost_ , Alexander. More than lost, I’m—I’m drowning under the weight of grief I feel for my lost life. And I’m taking you down with me. You’re completely right, it isn’t fair to you. You’ve been so, _so_ patient with me, and I can’t tell you how much I adore you for that.”

He takes another step toward Alec, who hasn’t moved an inch from his spot against the door. He’s silent, and Magnus is grateful because he won’t be able to get the words out otherwise.

“But I don’t know what my life is anymore,” Magnus breathes, the walls starting to close in around him. “I don’t know _me_. I’m not the high warlock anymore, I’m not even a _regular_ warlock. The one constant throughout my long life, the one thing I could count on always being there. It’s gone, and I feel like I can’t breathe without it.”

Magnus takes a shuddering breath; Alec uncrosses his arms, allowing them to fall unceremoniously to his sides. If the world were fair, if the burden of what he’s about to do didn’t sit so heavily on his chest, Magnus would fold himself into those arms, resting his head on Alec’s throat and feel his heart pound with life and vitality—the most beautiful feeling Magnus has ever known.

Nothing about his life has ever been fair, however. And he’s lived for centuries.

“I have to learn how to breathe again,” he continues, taking another step because he just can’t help it. “I have to… I have to find my identity again. Who I’m supposed to be, who I _want_ to be. I don’t know anything about this new, mundane Magnus, and I need to find out who he is.”

“I agree,” Alec says, voice earnest and so pure it breaks Magnus’ heart. “But is that new person getting drunk every night and getting into fights? Because that’s not the way to find yourself, Magnus.”

“I know.”

He stops a foot from Alec, gripping the edges of his tunic with fingers so tight he could rip the silken fabric with one little tug.

“I’ll help you,” Alec says, pushing himself off the wood of the door. “We can figure this out together. You just have to be open with me.”

Magnus’ fingers flex violently.

“Alec,” Magnus says, voice soft. “That’s just it. You… I love you _so_ much for wanting so badly to help. But you can’t help me with this, darling.”

Alec’s thick brows furrow in confusion.

“I don’t understand.”

He can’t stand the distance for one more second. Magnus closes the last foot between them, lacing his fingers through Alec’s. Alec lets him, looking at him in concern.

“I can’t keep letting you drown with me,” Magnus murmurs. “This is something I have to do on my own.”

His voice cracks on the last syllable, and Alec freezes, something clicking in his brain as his grip on Magnus’ hands tightens.

“What are you trying to say here, Magnus,” Alec says, dangerous.

“I need to find _me_ ,” Magnus whispers, eyes itching with unshed tears and voice full of anguish. “I can’t be responsible for your pain, Alec. I can’t watch you suffer because I am. I love you, and I know you love me, and that’s why I have to do this.”

Alec’s eyes are as wide as the full moon hanging in the night sky outside, his face just as pale as he holds Magnus’ hands for dear life, like Magnus will float away if he doesn’t.

“Are you… breaking up with me?” Alec asks, voice low and slow like he’s trying to piece it all together, like Magnus told a joke and he doesn’t get the punchline.

“I—I don’t know,” Magnus says honestly. “Sort of, maybe. I just… I can’t breathe, Alec. This has absolutely nothing to do with you, don’t think that it’s your fault.”

Alec's eyes are shining, and Magnus feels like someone is scraping his heart out with a ragged rusty spoon.

But he has to keep going. For his sake. For the man he loves whose heart Magnus is currently breaking.

Magnus reaches up in spite of himself and catches an escaped tear on his fingertip, delicate as a snowflake falling on his tongue.

“This _does not_ mean I don’t love you or don’t want to be with you,” Magnus says fiercely. “But, I can’t figure out me and be the boyfriend you need me to be, right now.”

“I don’t need you to be anything,” Alec pleads, holding Magnus’ hand against his cheek. “I just need you. Any way I can.”

“But _I_ need me to be something, Alec. I need to have some _purpose_ outside of lying around waiting for you to come home. You’re the head of the Institute, a revolutionary, progressive Shadowhunter who will change _everything_ one day."

Magnus says this will all the conviction he has, almost angry in how much he wants Alec to understand that this is _not his fault._

“I can’t be content with just being your boyfriend on the sidelines,” Magnus admits—the thought that’s been circling his mind for weeks now, that broke down the door of the walls he’s been hiding behind as Jace spoke to him, the thing he hasn’t dared to say aloud because he desperately wants it to be wrong.

But it isn’t, and Magnus can’t pretend anymore.

“I need a life for me beyond that,” he reasons. “I need direction, a new reason for living that comes from _me_ , not only you. Can you understand that?”

Alec takes a deep breath, gasping into it like he’s choking back a sob. He doesn't try to beg Magnus to stay with him, and the fact that he isn't, that despite the pain Magnus is putting him through he understands and respects Magnus' choice, makes Magnus break apart completely like a thawing lake.

Magnus releases Alec’s hand only to cup his chin, hard, forcing Alec to look at him, his hands growing damp from the salt water clinging to Alec’s long eyelashes and pooling under Magnus’ palms.

Even when falling apart, Alec makes Magnus’ heart stop with his beauty.

“Hey,” he says, voice hard, and _goddamnit_ he’s crying now, too. “This is not the end, do you hear me? We’ll… we’ll find our way back to each other.”

Alec sniffs, closing his eyes and leaning forward, pressing his forehead against Magnus’.

“I understand,” he whispers, finally.

His hands grip Magnus’ waist too tight, but Magnus can’t bring himself to care. He surges forward, closing the final bit of space between them and catching Alec’s mouth in a soft, broken kiss.

Alec pulls Magnus against him, chests flush, kissing him back urgently, pouring every emotion he’s feeling into it and making Magnus weak at the knees with the intensity. Magnus gasps into his mouth, their tears mingling together, Alec’s tongue pressing against his and his fingers tucked under the hem of Magnus’ shirt, cold against his hot skin.

They pull away when they’re gasping for air, panting and foreheads still pressed together.

“I’ll wait,” Alec murmurs, eyes closed. “I’m not going anywhere, Magnus. I’ll wait for you.”

Magnus laughs, self-deprecating, tasting tears in his mouth.

“You’re perfect,” he says in awe, like he’s made a historic discovery. “I do not deserve you.”

“Yes, you do,” Alec argues, kissing him again.

They can’t keep doing this, otherwise Magnus will never leave and make good on his promise. The one to himself, and the one to Alec. The only things that matter.

Magnus breaks the kiss, taking a step backward. He grips Alec’s hand in his, placing a soft kiss on his knuckles.

“I need to go,” he whispers.

Alec nods, face shining with fresh tears.

“I love you,” Alec says.

“I love you more than _everything_.” Magnus has never meant anything more; if there is one thing he knows with absolute certainty, in a future full of a new kind of unknown, it’s that.

It’s almost impossible to move away from Alec, like two magnets that refuse to separate, but he forces himself to put one foot in front of the other. He’s wading through lead as he passes Alec, the pain so palpable Magnus can reach out and grab it if he so chooses.

Magnus pauses at the door, knowing that the second he steps into the hallway, this is done, and everything changes. He wants to take it all back, whirl around and tell Alec it was all a sick joke, everything is fine, and kiss him senseless until neither of them feels anything except each other.

But there’s no going back now, and though this isn’t what Magnus wants, it’s what he needs.

“It’s going to be okay,” Magnus murmurs, loud enough so Alec hears him.

He opens the door and steps into the hall, fighting everything in him that wants to look back and drink in the sight of Alec Lightwood, more beautiful than any wonder of the world.

He doesn’t, though—a Herculean effort—and when the door shuts, he breaks into a run, the world he once knew fading to black behind him.

**Author's Note:**

> Come yell at me on Tumblr @consulalexander.


End file.
